


Sally Shorts

by nandroidtales



Category: Emmy The Robot (Webcomic)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-21 08:47:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30019179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nandroidtales/pseuds/nandroidtales
Kudos: 2





	1. In Their Lane

>”Ready Sal?”  
>”You bet, Vince.”  
>”Let’s roll.”  
>Hopping into the passenger seat she was ready to move, the man gunning the engine hard  
>Brushing a hand through his thick moustache, mirrors preened and corrected, the duo zipped off to that night’s destination  
>Cruising along the narrow, crowded streets Sally bounced her leg, nervous  
>Everything had been building to this night  
>Weeks of effort on top of her months now on the force had pushed her ahead to this point  
>Their first case had been cleared, Vince recovered and wanted back in the saddle  
>And the saddle was where they found themselves currently, Sally slipping a finger into her pocket to play with the little lead keepsake she’d become fond of  
>Twirling it in her fingers, feeling its luck wash through her fingers, she slowed the drumming bounce of her knee  
>”Everything alright Sal?”  
>”Y-Yeah, just some nerves.”  
>”Hey,” he said, turning to her. “You’re the best damn partner I could ask for. You got this.”  
>”Thanks Vince.”  
>Knee arrested still they stopped at their destination, the stooped building flashing in strobing bulbs, a train of buzzing lights running across the building’s awning  
>Both had their bags in hand, Sally sporting a recent department purchase for her feet, special made for more arduous and physical police work, but ideal for tonight’s engagement  
>Strolling into the building they were met by the cacophonous clatter of the building’s striking business  
>Mercifully they went undetected in the noise, silently switching to their other shoes; there’d be no identifiable footprints if they could help it  
>Strolling down the length of the waxed wooden floors they found their stop, their targets lazing about aimlessly, waiting  
>”Sh*t, took you long enough!”  
>”Why’s it always Vice that’s late?”  
>”Hey, it’s fashionable,” Vince snapped. “You’d know fashion if you stopped dressing like a corpse, Jensen.”  
>”Don’t tell me what’s fashionable when disco died, like, last year Travolta.”  
>”Doesn’t help you dressed the robot like that too,” cackled the lady detective  
>”Ooh you’re gonna regret that,” Sally joined, furnishing her weighty bag in front of them  
>”Whatever, *Corduroy*,” she snapped back, laughing  
>The gathered representatives of the other investigative departments, some of the city’s finest minds, furnished their bowling balls in hand  
>It was a menacing sight, each of the grizzled duos bedecked in their finest, clownish bowling shoes gliding over the ground  
>”I’ll set up,” Vince started, taking his place at the chunky computer between the half ring of benches  
>The other watched him idly type at the machine, keys clacking as he pressed in the teams  
>Tossing his head up at the overhead his eyes narrowed, brow wrinkling in turn  
>Glancing back and forth he tried to match up what he was seeing, the other detectives snickering at his expense   
>”Computer trouble Vince?”  
>”Screw off man,” he groaned, turning to his partner. “Sal?”  
>Nodding the slim robot took his place at the console, expertly piecing together its function and splaying the names and teams across the updating board  
>The city had invested in primitive personal computers for the police and, lacking anyone able to work them, had run into quite the technical stopgap  
>Sally, though, had no issue figuring the blocky machines out, their simple scanning displays a delight to her eyes  
>”All good,” she peeped rising from her spot  
>Kicking her bowling shoes around she took up a spot on the sidelines, the Arson detectives first up  
>Kilkenny and Walker, grim, ashen men and the oldest of the octet playing, considered themselves some of the better bowlers in the department, choosing to remind their coworkers at any time how well they’d played *last time*  
>Off to a stupendous start the two nabbed a strike and a following spare, a simple nod between them all they needed  
>Next was Traffic, the garish pair of Jensen and Bianchi, swaggering up in their plush, padded jackets and bowling horribly as usual  
>The first sank into the gutter, a chorus of laughs pushing the other to whiff his spare  
>Sulking back to their spot on the bench they talked strategy, preparing for the next round where they’d finally stick it to the others  
>Second to last was Homicide, the premier of the investigative departments, fostering some of the newest and some of the most experienced detectives on the force  
>Sauntering up to bowl was Lopez, the just-graying veteran sniffing the air before bowling a perfect strike, fourteen-pounder catapulting ahead with precision accuracy  
>He pat the shoulder of his junior partner, the young woman marching into place  
>Sweeping a lock of her red hair back she stared dead ahead, eyes fixed on the pyramid of pins as she wound up  
>The ball rocketed down the alley, a little twist pulling it away from its gutter-bound trajectory into the side of the pins, a brutish clattering clearing way for a textbook spare  
>”Good sh*t Murphy,” her partner shouted, hand slapping his knee  
>Grinning the lady returned to her spot, bowling ball spat back up as Vice’s turn finally came  
>A friendly bit of heckling was always welcome, but with Vince stepping up to bowl the volume picked up, jeers and laughs a bit louder  
>”Yo Sean,” Walker shouted back. “Travolta’s up!”  
>”Feck,” he muttered, speeding back, beer in hand. “Don’t wanna miss this.”  
>Nicknames were common in the department, but rarely rude  
>That is if you weren’t Vincent la Fontaine, and his unfortunate partner  
>”Travolta and Corduroy” was one of the biggest jokes in the precinct building for months, the discoish antics and patched jacket the only in the others needed  
>Vince shook it off, one of the drawbacks of being the youngest senior detective in the precinct  
>Breathing deep he stepped ahead, the ornery pendulum of his arm swinging ahead  
>Pulling into his knee he let loose, a ripper cascading down the lane and rocketing into the first pin  
>Bullseye  
>The tumbling mess fell flat, raked back for a perfect strike  
>He shuffled backwards, striking a pose to rub the Arson-holes’ faces in it  
>”You’re up Sal,” he winked. “You got it.”  
>A few more pokes at her patched jacket yanked her back, the bot wobbling at the edge of the lane  
>Breathing she glanced back at her partner, a subtle nod all she needed  
>Stretching ahead she let loose, her lighter ball (another joke for the others), slipping along the waxy wood  
>It veered dangerously right, the spin barely coming in   
>Breaking left it smashed into the third and sixth pins, knocking them down and away  
>Wheeling around she cheered a bit, met by the stone faces of the other detectives  
>Smiles started to crack as they giggled and snickered at her, the robot turning about again  
>And there it was, the most infamous of splits in the entire sport of bowling  
>The daunting seven-ten stared back at her like the gates of Hell, waiting for her to dare to spare  
>Vince hopped up from his spot and grabbed her shoulder, pulling her into a small huddle before she tried again  
>”Alright Sal, here’s how this plays out,” he whispered. “Whatever the outcome, we’re ahead of Traffic by a mile. Easy-peasy.”  
>Nodding resolutely she picked up her minute ball, lining herself up perfectly  
>She was going for the spare, and she knew how  
>It’d take a while to run through in her head but the ingrained ballistics calculator could work for nailing the seven pin into the ten, easily  
>All she needed was a moment to think, hand gently raising the ball  
>Breathing slowed she focused in, the heckles from behind her forgotten as she let the ball slip forward again  
>Rocketing leftward it hugged the gutter, twisting right to bounce the seven pin across the lane’s width  
>Time slowed for a moment, the twirling block of wood and plastic hurled sideways into its lone sibling  
>Rocking a fist in the air Vince jumped from his seat, hooting and hollering  
>”*That’s* my partner,” he guffawed, pointing in the faces of his grumbling coworkers  
>”It’s only the first frame Vince,” Lopez muttered  
>”If this is how our first frame is gonna play out I think you’re all outta luck.”

>And he was right  
>Coming down to the final frame Vice was neck and neck with the duo of Arson  
>Agonizingly Vince whiffed on his spare, leaving the outcome to Sally  
>After a rough spat in the middle-frames she came back into her own, nabbing a double in the previous frame  
>If she could sink this strike it was all over, all those nicknames would be washed away in a smug deluge after this  
>”No pressure,” Vince reminded her, drawing a straight arrow down the lane and to victory  
>Breathing again, trying to slow the synthetic panic building in her chest   
>Pausing for a moment she plumbed her hand into her pocket, fingers running over the silvery little bit of metal from all those months ago  
>She’d weathered worse than a bowling match- this was no big deal  
>”No big deal,” she mumbled under her breath, muting the groans behind her to hurry up  
>Arm swung behind her she pulled low to her knee, letting the ball slip ahead, grinding silently over the wooden lane and towards the triangle of pins  
>With a knock the one pin was flung sideways, sweeping its neighbors down as the ball continued its rampage through the mass  
>Pins bouncing away and down the maw at the end of the lane it was painfully clear to the others what was happening  
>Sally rocked up, hopping in her slippery shoes  
>Vince shot up again from his seat, laughing hard in the faces of the other detectives as he rushed over to Sally  
>The cheering robot couldn’t stop shimmying, adaptive programs loosening her from any pervasive social conventions  
>”Fuggen *gold* Sal! Right here,” he beamed, hand up high  
>Smacking his hand with hers they kept up the party, the other six already doffing their bowling shoes and packing up  
>”What’s the matter guys? Not gonna stay for drinks or anything?”  
>A few muttered about work piling up, others silent as they ambled about, finally leaving the alley  
>The other two took the time to celebrate their win, drawing up a list of brags for the next day at the office  
>Dropping Sally off at the precinct to charge Vince sailed back for his apartment, wind whipping his hair through the open window  
>Racing home, heart pounding higher in amorous excitement, he couldn’t wait to fling the door open to his cozy flat  
>Sherry was gonna die laughing hearing about how Sal gave the city’s finest a run for their money, the two giggling over drinks as the night wound down


	2. New Equipment

>”Vincent, once! You hit the key *once*!”  
>”Look- Sorry, but it’s not going right!”  
>”They’re slow! You have to be patient!”  
>An onerous grinding came from the blocky construct sitting on Vince’s desk, the ponderous little machine struggling to figure out what the hell the human smashing his keys wanted  
>”Scooch over,” the nandroid grumbled  
>”I- Hey!”  
>Forcing her partner from his wheely chair she took a seat at the console

>In Vince’s absence Sally had taken the brunt of his work on the Weatherman case, some amicable brushes with federal law enforcement helping to resolve the affair justly  
>Beyond that, though, Crawley wanted to keep her in reserve should she be needed, rather than assigning her to a new partner  
>He was damn satisfied with her results in wrapping up the former case and saw her potential as a fully fledged detective, not some “notebook” as she’d been sold   
>So she waited in the mingling months, more secretary than detective, helping to file and sort and organize like her nandroid cousins  
>Later, the department had taken the cheaper option for that kind of clerical work, Sally helping to unload the few dozen bulky machines that now graced desks around the precinct building  
>With hours of free time and only the squarish computer to keep her company Sally set to work  
>By the time Vince had returned in good health she was the department’s stand in tech support, clearing up the myriad of errors the other less-able users ran into  
>And that’s where she found herself again, staring back at the suffering screen of Vince’s computer  
>”Alright, watch me for a sec.”  
>Flipping one switch the frozen monitor blacked out, and with another the tiny light on the computer was extinguished  
>”Okay, what did I do?”  
>”You…,” he narrowed his eyes. “You shut off the monitor before the computer.”  
>”Good. Now watch again.”  
>Two more clicks and it was up again, screen cleared of the hodgepodge of commands Vince had spilled out  
>”Monitor, then computer.”  
>”Right. Now I’m gonna show you how to use a disk.”  
>Sally bounced to her desk opposite him and, ruffling about in one of the drawers, swept past the dense red manual for the already worn box she’d been playing with  
>Plucking it from its cluttered home she withdrew the disk, just thick enough to give it some sway as she handed it around  
>Turning to Vince then to the disk drive, pointing carefully, she slipped it inside  
>Locking it shut she flipped back to the waiting screen  
>Typing out a few simple commands the drive whirred back to life, grinding anxiously for understanding   
>Sally rolled her eyes and kept at it, the screen finally flickering to a introductory screen, colored blobs introducing themselves  
>”Hey, wait-”  
>”Yep,” she smiled. “They run games.”  
>Tapping a key a harsh chip-tune played back, a narrow maze scanning onto the screen  
>In Vince’s last ambulatory weeks in the hospital he would shuffle down to one of the common rooms, spending too long at the recently installed cabinets to entertain himself  
>And now Sally had summoned up his favorite one at the press of a button  
>He leant in, a finger’s flick at the arrow keys twisting and dodging the pursuing ghosts  
>Score racking up quickly she flipped the game off, another key returning her to the blank screen, empty save for the dancing cursor  
>”Hey, wait-”  
>”You can play if you can show me how to start it again.”  
>”Where’s this coming from, Sal-”  
>”Just do it Vince,” she grumbled  
>Being the singular person in the department who understood the things (or at least bothered to read the manual) Sally spent most of her working time fixing other people’s errors, mistakes, and trying to hammer in how to work them on their own  
>”Fine, jeez.”  
>Hesitating he typed out what he thought she’d written, finger hovering over the return key  
>With a tap a readout followed up, prompting him to choose which drive he wanted to read  
>She’d put it in the topmost of the two, so…  
>”One,” he mumbled, putting it in. “Bam.”  
>The ghosts spilled back onto the screen, another tap replacing the blank black void with the maze  
>Fumbling with the arrow keys he tried to evade here and there, picking the keyboard controls up quickly  
>”Good. Now, I’m gonna go get some blanks and show you how to write a disk.”  
>”Wait what?”  
>”Vince they’re not just for games, they do important stuff. They’re a tool-”  
>”You’re a tool,” the detective muttered back, flicking the arrow key again to nab a cherry  
>”Alright, no more,” she spat, flicking the twin switches before he could do anything  
>Stealing the disk away from its drive she slipped it back into her desk, fetching the manual and slapping it in front of him  
>”Read over this while I go grab the disks. I want you to know how to open the word processor by the time I’m back.”  
>”The what?”  
>”You heard me,” she smirked, marching off to the new computer storage room  
>At least with teaching Vince she could be a little bit more direct, she reminded herself  
>With him she could count on a more forceful approach actually working, too  
>And then, mercifully, there would be *two* people in the building who could figure the things out


	3. Hole in One

>”Yo, Sal,” Vince peeped, peering back into the office. “It’s gettin’ pretty late, and uh…”  
>”What’s up Vince,” she returned, cocking her head at him  
>Brushing her shirt up she popped the charging cord out from her lower back, shivering reflexively before coiling it up  
>”Well- Right, you know how it’s Saint Patrick’s Day?”  
>She nodded, the little shamrock baubles he’d forced on her head nodding in turn  
>”Well Sherry and I wanted to, er, *go out* for the night, and we wanted to know-”  
>”You need a driver?”  
>”...If you wouldn’t mind?”  
>”Fine,” she sighed, yanking her jacket off the back of her chair. “When?”  
>”...Now?”  
>A fluff of red hair snickered behind him, Sally joining the duo as she slipped into her worn corduroy  
>Foot on the gas Sally carried them out and away into the thickening Beacon City dusk, fading orange-purple light stroking Vince’s car

>”Oh, this’s the place!”  
>Breaking out of song Vince leant over Sally’s shoulder, pointing out the humble, thumping bar on the curb  
>”Oh-finni-ginns,” she read out. “Vince, you-”  
>”Yeah I’m sure,” he chuckled, Sherry snickering with him  
>Squeezing between two other cars Sally let the duo out, content to sit in the car and listen to the radio  
>Warm air sang from the fan, snuggling her closer as she flipped the station to something more familiar from the years gone by  
>A finger knocked on the glass, shaking her out of her musical stupor to see Vince grinning on the window  
>”You wanna come in?”  
>”Vince you know-”  
>”C’mon it’ll be fun! Plus you’re wearing green,” he laughed. “No pinches.”  
>Shrugging she hopped out, locking the car behind her to join the duo in the bar  
>Her mistake, however, was expecting humans occupied by alcohol to want to talk to someone sober  
>Sighing she languished at the bar’s end, mindlessly rereading one of the coasters for details  
>She’d already gone over the manufacturer, the trivia on it useless to her, and checking for typos proved more frustrating than fun  
>There was no detective on the other end to scold for his spelling errors, hands thrown up in defense as she showed him how to use the spell-check on his computer  
>Turning her head up at a raucous eruption of laughter she watched a trio of bar patrons thump an upright cabinet angrily, halfway to throwing a fist through its curved glass screen  
>Eyes wide she watched them play the curious game, a barely audible chiptune singing from the machine as they left, grumbling  
>No such luck for them tonight, she mused, sidling up to the blocky, wood-paneled machine  
>Now, what kind of game could this be?  
>Fishing for the handful of change Vince offered her before disappearing Sally grabbed a pair of quarters  
>Plopping them in the machine a humble green course was painted before her, scanning line-by-line together  
>Birds chirped in eight bit overhead, a blocky figure dismounting an equally square cart  
>”Golf,” she groaned, wishing she’d smashed the orange return button before it was too late  
>Looking around there was nothing left to play and, judging by the volume in the bar, everyone would be drinking for some time more  
>Glancing up, clear as day, it spelled it out to her in stylishly manicured letters - *this is a golf game*  
>Sighing she turned back to her glowing golfer, tapping the buttons to choose her club  
>Not like she knew the difference between any of them  
>Jingling her pocket she had plenty of change and time to figure it out, though  
>Swinging and missing she felt around how to get the ball moving, hopping a few yards at a time to a miserable triple bogey  
>Swinging her way through the course, hardly paying attention to the slow drop of her score as she sank pars and birdies with skill, she beat it  
>”Huh, that was quick,” she sniffed. “Might as well.”  
>Two more quarters slinked down into the arcade cabinet, Sally wiggling her fingers in anticipation  
>Halfway into the back nine she swung around, a tap on her shoulder spooking her  
>”Woah! Easy, there- didn’t know robots played games,” the man huffed. “But uh, can I get next?”  
>”Oh, uh- sure. And yes,” she smirked, “I play a lot of games.”  
>Shrugging the man stood back, nursing a beer as he watched her play  
>Sally had never had an *audience* before, but it was nice   
>With a bit more pep she finished out the eighteenth hole with a par  
>”Not bad, not bad.”  
>The young man sidled up, hand plunging into a pocket  
>Quarters in hand he started the game, swinging to a start   
>The two went back and forth between the games, trying to ignore the increasingly boisterous drinking songs from up the bar  
>By the time Sally was down to her last two quarters a small audience had gathered, sleepily watching her play before breaking into cheers   
>The interested barkeep had kept a chalk-up of the score, Sally leading healthily but not out of danger  
>If she scored low enough to trap the young man out, himself becoming slowly inebriated, she had it in the bag  
>She could tell he was nervous, liquor-crowded brow furrowing in distress as his face clammed up  
>Sinking an albatross on the eighteenth hole was the final nail, the man conceding before spilling the last of his beer on the floor  
>Rag in hand he was mopping it up, a drunken Vincent and Sherry hobbling through the crowd to the grinning robot  
>”Whuzz the cummoshin, Shal?”  
>”Don’t sweat it Vince, just burning through that pocket money.”  
>Stepping through the little gathering, returning a few handshakes or pats on the back, she ferried her two wards back to the car  
>It was near midnight, time for home  
>Tucking them safely in the backseat and buckling them, Sherry joking about her nandroid programming, Sally took her place in the driver’s seat  
>Her bouncing headdress smacked at the top of the door, the robot grumbling quietly as she twisted the key  
>Slipping away again into the night she brought the two back to their apartment, ponderously guiding them up the stairs and to the elevator  
>They could figure the rest out, slapping Vincent’s keys back into his hand  
>Sitting alone on the shivering sidewalk she waited for the bus, hands edging around for a spare quarter  
>”Looks like I’m walking,” she said out loud. “Friggin… Saint Patrick.”  
>Marching along the city streets towards the slumbering precinct building she mumbled to herself  
>Vince owed her at least twice the quarters for this


End file.
